Recurrent Glass

Into the palm of a hand

like marks of saints

the final piece from something broken years

ago and left to hide in dirt

tangled in roots like legs in sheets

after a night of running in dreams.

The flesh reaches down

and accepts it in

like an old lover returning to a bed

and their imprinted shape has always

been there waiting to take them back

and it is a tiny crystal

dagger embedded.

Between palm lines

and waiting to scar so that

one day a fortune can be read there

and it will be told that it was

this moment when the skin diverged

to weep blood which is what

made everything change.

Then later when turned to ash

or dust or dirt

there will be the glass

again waiting

to be taken home.